The Dark Mark Affair
by Argonaut57
Summary: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, James Bond and Simon Templar are all drawn into dirty doings in Monte Carlo. A gang called the Dark Mark, led by one Tom Riddle, is causing trouble. Things could get a little rowdy. Time for Professor Minerva McGonagall to take charge! (WARNING: Contains scenes of full-frontal smoking).


**The Dark Mark Affair**

Episode One: Bust-up in Monte Carlo

Simon Templar was in his element. The casino was exclusive, elegant, expensive and high stakes only. The kind of place frequented by the very rich and the very dishonest -a land flowing with ungodliness and boodle!

Simon scanned the crowd, effortlessly noting the types. The honest rich mixing with the criminal rich and pretending not to know who was who. Relaxed, happy, enjoying themselves. Against them, the professional gamblers, no different in dress, perhaps, but impassive, watchful, here to make a living.

But then there were the others. The ones like himself, here for reasons of their own. Like the man playing baccarat at the top table, now. A big man, as tall as Simon and well built, dressed in faultless evening attire. The face was strong-boned, ruggedly handsome and the thick dark hair fell across the forehead in a black comma. But there was more than a hint of cruelty in the set of the mouth, and the grey eyes were cold. Simon noted that while the man clearly had excellent peripheral vision, when something drew his attention, he didn't slide his eyes, as most people did, but turned his whole head, as a cat does. _A professional assassin_. Simon decided. Either here to spend his pay, or to assess his next target.

Two other men had drawn Simons' eye also. They were at the roulette table, where one of them had established himself as the soul of the party. Another tall, darkly handsome man, an American by the sound of him. He played a risky game, shoving huge piles of chips onto apparently random numbers and greeting winnings or loss with the same suave humour and charm. He drank steadily, without apparently being affected, and had drawn an admiring crowd.

His companion – they had come in together and were clearly friends – was an absolute contrast. Shorter, slim and wiry with the grace of a dancer or karate expert, the other man was blond, with a thin, impassive face and piercing blue eyes. He watched the table, watched the wheel, watched the croupiers. He placed small bets, but with a mathematical precision, and seemed to be winning more than his companion. Oddly, his accent was more English than American, but certain intonations betrayed his origins as somewhere in Eastern Europe. He responded to his friends' banter with a dry wit. _Crooks or cops_. Simon judged. The dark one distracting customers and staff while the blond one assessed the honesty or otherwise of the table.

Of course, Simon would not have been Simon if he had failed to take note of the ladies. There were as many women there as men, but fewer actually gambling. Some stayed close to their men, decoration or distraction. Others waited in the wings, sipping cocktails -the concubines who would serve their purpose later. Still others circulated the crowd, and these were the predators, looking to find a winner, flushed with success and drink, from whom they could extract, subtly or otherwise, a pound or two of flesh.

Then there was the other one. The one who didn't seem to fit anywhere. Simon hadn't noticed her at first. Unlike most of the women here, she had not arrayed herself for male viewing pleasure. But once seen, she made a striking figure. Taller than most women, and slender, she carried herself with a poise and dignity that was almost intimidating. She was certainly attractive, though her features were too strong to be called pretty, even framed by the wealth of dark hair that cascaded down her back. The elegant simplicity of her gown, and the discreet but expensive jewellery spoke to a woman of both means and taste. That alone had drawn the attention of some of the men, but something about her direct gaze, and the acidly witty way she responded to flirtation, had discouraged their attentions.

She had played a little blackjack, winning just enough to turn a profit and losing just enough to seem honest. But Simon was a gambler himself, among his many talents, and could make a living at the tables if he needed to. He knew she was doing something – he just couldn't figure out what, and it piqued his interest.

But he had bigger fish to fry. A Corsican gangster was coming here tonight. A man who made his living by preying on the misery of poor working people. Simon had plans to give the man a taste of his own medicine, to relieve him of several million francs and to line his own pockets in doing so. They called him the 'modern Robin Hood', but Simon Templar was not the man to give away his hard-won, or even ill-gotten, gains to the Great Unwashed. Not all of them, anyway. Simon was a thief and a con man, but he only stole from those who had already stolen from others.

But, as the poet has it, "The best -laid plans o' mice and men gang aft agley." In this case, everyone's plans were interrupted by a violent explosion which blew the door off its' hinges and left the two evening-suited guards dead and bloody. A dozen black-clad, masked figures erupted into the room. Two of them proceeded to fire bursts of sub-machine gun fire into the ceiling. The others, armed with what appeared to be pickaxe handles, set about wrecking the place.

There was immediate panic among the customers, who fled for the emergency exits. These were open and unguarded, Simon noted, also realising that the attackers were paying little or no attention to the people, merely threatening them and scaring them, unless they showed fight. There was little enough of that, at first. The professional bodyguards – and there were several present -were more concerned with getting their charges out of harms' way than anything else.

But then those who were paid to guard the place itself joined the fray. Ten or so big, burly men armed with police batons. At that point, things became serious, and vicious. The invaders responded by attacking anyone they could reach. Simon ducked as a pickaxe handle whistled over his head, and responded with an uppercut that sent his assailant down across the blackjack table.

He shrugged. This wasn't necessarily his fight, but Francois, who owned the casino, was a friend, and Simon owed him that much. He waded in, trying not to enjoy himself too much.

Then the inevitable happened. Seeing his comrades suffering a setback, one of the gunmen made to turn his weapon onto the melee. There were still customers in the room – only a few – but the weapon was an indiscriminate one and Simon would not tolerate the killing of bystanders. He made to draw his gun, but was beaten to it. There was a sharp report, and the machine-gunner went down, shot precisely between the eyes.

Simon turned to see the big man who had been playing baccarat, still standing by the raised card table, lowering a small, neat pistol; a Walther PPK if he was any judge. The mans' face was impassive as he scanned the crowd, but when his eye caught Simons', there was a flicker of recognition. Simon spun back to check on the other gunman, just as another gunshot sounded.

This one came from the dark-haired American at the roulette table, and while it was less surgically precise than the card-players', it was just as effective, putting down the second gunner. Simon noted that the blond man was in the process of scientifically disposing of a club-wielding assailant.

His highly-developed sixth sense warned him, so he was already moving as a womans' voice called : "Look out!"

Another pickaxe handle swung down where he had just been. But then his feet were tangled in a fallen chair and he went down, rolling over to see the masked thug raising his weapon for another blow. A jet of red light struck the man in the side and he collapsed like a marionette with cut strings.

Simon got to his feet and found himself face to face with the woman he had noticed earlier. She was holding a thin stick in her right hand as if it were a weapon. She looked him up and down, snapped "Pay attention!" in the unmistakable tones of a schoolmistress, then turned away and shot another streak of red light from the stick, putting a second masked thug down.

Simon Templar had not survived as long as he had in his dangerous world by being the kind of man who allowed amazement to paralyse him. There would be time for explanations later. He got back into the fight.

Fortunately – or not, depending on ones' tastes -there was little left to do. The attackers were demoralised by the death of two of their number, while the bouncers were encouraged by the unexpected reinforcements. Within a few moments, those who could, fled, leaving the defenders bruised but triumphant among the wreckage of the once elegant room. A man made his way over to Simon at once.

Francois Dauberge had gained pounds and lost hair since his Resistance days, but his eyes still burned fiercely out of a face which, if a little jowlier, was still hard and uncompromising. The hearty French embrace with which he greeted Simon was as powerful as ever.

"Simon, _mon vieux_, I had not known you were 'ere!" He said. "I am so sorry zat your evening 'as been spoiled!"

"On the contrary," Simon told him. "the entertainment proved excellent, if rather unexpected."

Francois laughed. "Ah, zat is ze Simon I remember. But 'oo are your allies?"

"On that, I'm as much in the dark as you are, Francois." Simon admitted.

The others had gravitated toward them, and now the man from the baccarat table nodded to the two from the roulette game in the manner of a professional greeting others.

"Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin." He noted in a deep, commanding voice. "UNCLEs' finest. What are you doing here?"

The darker man, identified as Solo, replied. "I might ask you the same, Agent 007."

"Bond." 007 responded. "James Bond. Working, of course, as you are. I wonder if we're working on the same thing?"

"Whether or not we are," observed Kuryakin, "I have to wonder of it was mere coincidence that brought us all here on the same night as the notorious Simon Templar?"

Bond looked squarely at Simon for the first time. "I knew I'd seen your face somewhere." He remarked. "We have a file on you, a very large one."

"I'm flattered." Simon replied.

"Don't be." Bond told him. "Simon Templar, alias The Saint. Thief, confidence trickster, gambler, mercenary and suspected of several murders. You get away with it because your victims are usually bigger crooks than you are, because of your war record and because you have on several occasions been of assistance to both the British and American governments."

"And because we've never quite managed to catch you." Solo added. "So now we have only the question of your lady friend."

"Our acquaintance is very recent..."Simon began, but the woman cut across him.

"I am not Mr Templars' lady friend." She said in a precise Scots voice. "I am a mere holidaymaker here in Monte Carlo. My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall and I lecture in Physics at..."

"No, you don't." Bond said flatly. "You're the senior teacher of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

She looked sharply at him, then nodded. "Of course. It would be naïve of me to assume that a senior operative of the muggle Secret Service would not be at least aware of my world and its more important institutions. I assume that UNCLE also keeps a watching brief on wizards?" Kuryakin and Solo nodded. "Which only leaves the question of Mr Templar here..."

"And I've seen much odder things than magic." Simon allowed. "I don't give away secrets, Professor. My record shows that."

"I will accept that, for now." She said. "However, I must admit to a passing curiosity as to the meaning of tonights' events. Even I know that such things are far from common, even among muggles!"

Francois shook his head. "Ah, _mademoiselle Professeur_, " He said grimly. "I sink ze less you know of _Monsieur_ Riddle and 'is Dark Mark gang, ze safer you weel be and ze better you weel sleep."

Minerva McGonagalls' face turned grim, and her voice was authoritative as she replied. "On the contrary, _monsieur_, I think I need to know everything!"

Dauberge clearly exercised the same discipline over his casino staff as he had over his Resistance cell, and commanded the same loyalty. It took only a few crisp orders for him to set the staff about clearing up. Then he led the others to his private office, which was large and well-appointed, and seated them comfortably. They spoke French, a language in which they were all comfortably fluent.

"Would any of you care for a drink?" He asked, moving over to the well-stocked bar. "Mademoiselle?"

"Do you happen to have a good single-malt Scotch whisky?" Minerva asked.

"I have the Laphroaig." Dauberge told her, pouring a generous measure at her nod of approval. "Ice, water or soda?"

"Good heavens, man, certainly not!" Minerva told him indignantly. "I will take it unpolluted, if you please!"

"I'll have the same." Simon added.

"Vodka martini, ice and lemon, shaken, not stirred." Bond requested.

"Bourbon on the rocks." Solo asked.

Kuryakin had been studying the array of bottles, and now asked. "Could I have a glass of the Perrier water, with a dash of lime, please?"

"Illya seldom drinks." Solo told them all. "But he makes up for it by eating enough for three people."

"Unlike others," Kuryakin pointed out, "I have a high energy output."

Dauberge, having passed the drinks around, sat down with a glass of his favourite Armagnac and shook his head.

"I feared it might come to this." He said without preamble. "No serious harm has been done. What was broken is easily replaced, and I am a wealthy man, wealthy enough not to worry about being closed for a night or two."

Only Simon knew that the source of that wealth was a hoard of Nazi gold he and Dauberge had 'liberated' during the War.

"So what," Simon asked, "is going on, Francois? Why didn't you contact me before?"

Dauberge shrugged. "It was not a problem at first, at least so I thought. Like most casinos we have been approached by racketeers in the past. I needed no loans to start this place, and most of my staff are the sons and daughters of people who served with me in the War, so they have no need of these unions. As to the protection rackets, both the Corsicans and the Sicilians have attempted this. I sent their men back, a little bruised, a little bloody, with the message that this service was not needed."

He gave a short laugh. "I am not a man easily intimidated. One who has defied and killed officers of the Gestapo – men from whom these _tough guys_," he used the English phrase, "would flee like scared children – knows how to deal with petty bullies. I let it be known that my house is a place where no gang rivalries are permitted. A place safe and neutral, where anyone might come for their pleasure. So I have thrived.

"Then some six moths ago, there began to be rumours of a new gang. They called themselves the Dark Mark, and within a very short time they have assumed supremacy in many places. They terrify and drive out the Sicilians and the Corsicans, even the Chinese!

"I thought little of it -I had perhaps been complacent – until I received this!"

He went over to his desk and opened a drawer, taking out what appeared to be a scroll. "it was on my desk one morning, and none of my staff can say how it came there."

He handed it to Kuryakin, who examined it and passed it on. When it came to Minerva, she noted that it was parchment, rather than paper, thick and high quality. The message was written in a firm, flowing script and read:

_Lord Voldemort requires your tribute. One quarter of your earnings, monthly. Subjection and humility will be rewarded by continued life, defiance punished by inevitable death. Three days are given._

There was no signature underneath, just an elaborate drawing of a human skull with a snake emerging from its mouth.

"Rather over-dramatic." Simon remarked. "But you said the Dark Mark was run by a man called Riddle?"

Dauberge shrugged. "I am not without my sources of information. Naturally, I set out to learn what I could of these people. Their leaders' name is indeed Tom Riddle, but he calls himself Lord Voldemort and claims to be an English aristocrat of that title. But Voldemort is not an English title, and though there was once a family armigerous named Riddle, they are extinct.

"But this Riddle, he is a dangerous man. His henchmen fear him like death itself. It is said that he has ways to find out the deepest secrets. That no door can be locked against him. Even that he, by the simple force of his will, caused the bodyguard of a Mafia chief to kill his own boss."

Dauberge shrugged again. "I ignored the note, and the man himself came here two nights ago and asked to speak with me. He was here in this office. A tall, thin man in black. He wore tinted glasses, and his face was like a mask. He did not speak so much as whisper, or hiss."

Dauberge rubbed his face, his eyes were haunted now. "He talked, for an hour or more, as if trying to persuade me. All the time I...I felt his will, battering against mine. I have not felt so threatened since I faced von Maier -you recall him, Simon? I almost lost myself, it took all my strength to say no the first time, but after that it became easier. Finally, he left, saying only that there would be consequences. We have seen the first of those consequences tonight, I think."

He rubbed his face again, then finished his brandy as a gulp. "You will wish, I think, to speak privately. I must see to my people. My house is your house."

He left. There was a moments' silence, then Bond said to Solo; "So, why are you two here?"

Solo grinned easily. "Our job." He said. "UNCLEs' brief covers organised crime, especially when it's international. We got rumours of a new outfit, centred here but spreading into Europe and the US, so we came to see what we could find out. Seems we've found out more than we expected."

Kuryakin added; "It wouldn't be the first time THRUSH has used organised crime as a front for their operations, but this feels different. What about you, Mr Bond? Her Majestys' Secret Service does not send out double-O agents on simple errands."

Bond nodded. "It seems that this group is active in more than one sphere. Things have gone missing. Sensitive documents, weapon designs, strategic plans. They vanish, no-one knows quite how, then turn up on the open market. It's happening to us, the Americans, the Russians and the Chinese, indiscriminately. We have a gentlemens' agreement whereby we allow the original owner to buy the material back, but that can't continue too long, so I've been sent to put a stop to it.

"We did think it might be SPECTRE, but it isn't their style. They steal to order, and are paid by their clients.

"What about you, Mr Templar? If I didn't know better, I'd suspect you of being behind some of this."

"You do know better." Simon told him. "I've never been a racketeer, or a gangster. An outlaw, perhaps, but by my own rules. When my path crosses that of the ungodly, I deal with them as they deserve, and if I come by a little well-earned boodle in the process, well, a man has to make a living.

"Francois is a friend of mine, certainly. But I only arrived here yesterday. I came here for a nights' entertainment, and would have taken the chance to talk to him later on, but my plans were disrupted.

"Having said that, I don't like people who threaten my friends, so this Riddle now has my attention. He won't find that comfortable, I think."

"Then I suggest we pool our resources." Kuryakin said. Getting nods all round, he went on. "The note interests me. It's on parchment, and if I'm any judge, was written with a quill pen. Who uses parchment and quills nowadays?"

"Wizards." Minerva put in. She had been sitting so quietly that they had somehow forgotten her. It occurred to Simon that this may have been what she wanted. Now, however, she was the centre of attention, something she seemed wholly unperturbed about. She sat forward and spoke as if to a class of unruly schoolboys.

"I do not doubt your competence in your various fields of endeavour, gentlemen, but you are facing here something, or rather someone, who is wholly outside your experience.

"All of you, apart from Mr Templar, here, are aware of the world of wizards which exists, mostly in secret, alongside your own muggle world. What you may not be fully aware of is that we too have our factions, our criminals and our political differences. Now I have a great deal to tell you, so please make yourselves comfortable."

Bond reached into his pocket and took out a gunmetal cigarette case, which he offered around. The unfiltered cigarettes had a distinctive mark of three gold bands near one end. "I have them specially made up by Morlands'." He said. Simon and Solo both accepted one, Kuryakin indicated that he didn't smoke. Minerva also declined, reaching into her evening bag and producing a silver case of her own, from which she took a Sobranie Black Russian.

"It is not a vice I indulge in frequently," she told them, "and I am rather childlike in that I only really like this brand."

She accepted a light from Bonds' oxidised Ronson before continuing.

"The name Tom Marvolo Riddle is one known to a select few British wizards." She said. "He was born in 1926 in an orphanage in London, his mother dying shortly after naming him. At the age of eleven he was admitted to Hogwarts -the British school for wizards and witches – having already demonstrated great magical potential. He was sorted into Slytherin House – a fact which will mean little or nothing to any of you, but which can be indicative of certain unpleasant character traits. It also demonstrated that at least one, if not both, of his unknown parents must have been a witch or wizard of Pureblood lineage.

"This is significant because there was and is a continuing, low-key political conflict in our world between those who wish to keep wizard bloodlines pure, forbidding marriage with muggles and refusing to admit muggle-borns into our world, and those who welcome the introduction of new blood. In the past, this dispute has occasionally become violent. As we speak, the debate is flaring up anew and factions are forming, factions with radical agendas.

"Riddle proved a brilliant student, but possessed an intense curiosity regarding the Dark Arts -the dangerous aspect of magic we teach students to guard against. He also had more than the usual Slytherin level of dislike for Half-blood and muggle-born students, and was known to despise muggles in general. He collected around himself a coterie of like-minded associates, though he had no real friends.

"He left school in 1945, and disappeared shortly thereafter. He reappeared in 1956, by which time he had adopted the alias 'Lord Voldemort', a partial anagram of his full name. He requested a teaching post at Hogwarts, but was refused. Since then, he has not been seen or heard of, except by rumours. Terrible rumours. Murder, extortion, kidnapping, every crime known to wizard or muggle. But still only rumours, until now."

"Interesting spook story." Solo said. "But why is this evil wizard heading up a gang of – what was that word – _muggle_ thugs? Why the theft, extortion and protection rackets?"

"Money." Simon said. "Politics are all very well, but to get a party, or a revolution, going, you need money. The Russians and Chinese fund communist groups all over the world. The CIA and MI6 do the same for anti-communist groups.

"If our friend Mr Riddle means to launch a campaign or a coup in this wizard world, he'll need money to do it."

"I had not considered that, Mr Templar." Minerva allowed. "Riddle might well have the help of several wealthy wizard families, but they cannot supply all his needs. Our wizarding system of finance is less complex than the muggle one. We have no Stock Exchange or currency markets. Most of our transactions are cash ones, and our coinage is still made from precious metals.

"Nevertheless, we do have a bank, Gringotts, which is owned and run not by wizards but by Goblins. Rather like your muggle Swiss banks, Gringotts are punctilious in their protection of clients' funds and confidentiality, but ask no questions as to how monies were obtained. They would happily exchange any amount of muggle money into our coinage, and store it in their vaults without once wondering – or even caring - where it came from.

"It is clear, gentlemen, that Riddle and his Dark Mark gang must be stopped. It is equally clear that you are unlikely to be able to achieve this without my help."


End file.
